


heart machine

by honey_wheeler



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hot sex and cold comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart machine

**Author's Note:**

> Set after _Casino Night_.

She sits in the car a long time after she leaves the warehouse. She wants to forget how late it is, forget that she’s tired and bleary-eyed, forget that she only got _out_ of the car two hours ago, and head straight back to New York. She wants to march back into that warehouse and give Michael Scott the black eye he so richly deserves for misleading her, for sweet-talking her into coming up here, for making her think that maybe something between them could work. That’s really her own fault; hitting Michael won’t do anything to change that. But it might make her feel better.

She’s still sitting there when a knock at her window startles her, making her jump and reflexively reach for her purse and the mace inside. It’s just Jim, though, so she presses one hand to her still-racing heart and gives him a fulminating glare before she rolls down the window.

“Jim.”

“Jan. Hey.” He pushes his fists into his pockets, stretching the fabric of his pants over his knuckles. He studies her face. His own is drawn and tired, like he just lost an argument.

“You okay?” he asks, but she can tell by the sound of his voice that he knows she isn’t and he knows why.

“I don’t even have a hotel room,” she tells him. “I thought- can you imagine…” Her voice trails off. She can’t bring herself to say the words. It’s bad enough that they’re in her head, voicing them would make them real in a way she’s not ready to consider. He considers her for a moment and then walks behind her car to wait expectantly at the passenger door. It takes her a moment to think to unlock it. He gets in and pulls the seatbelt over his shoulder.

“Take a left out of the parking lot,” he tells her.

“Where are we going?”

“My place.” He looks over at her then and something’s different. She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. She just starts the car and reverses out of the parking space.

*****

His apartment is dark when he opens the door, her bag gripped in his left hand. She’d protested, told him he didn’t have to carry it, but he’d taken it anyway. Normally she wouldn’t have given in. But it’s not a good night for normal. He sets his keys in a tray on the desk next to the door and gestures for her to precede him up the stairs.

Once she’s in his room she feels old. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It just has a distinctly collegiate air; no headboard, IKEA shelves, high school yearbooks on the bookcase. It’s been a long time since she had a room like this or even been in one. Her bed now has matching sheets and shams and decorative pillows that her cleaning lady arranges carefully on the freshly-made bed every Tuesday morning after picking them up from the floor where Jan tosses them every Tuesday evening. Her dresser holds a jewelry box and a silver tray of almost-empty perfume bottles that she can’t bring herself to throw away. His has a lava lamp and a coaster collection.

She doesn’t turn around when she feels his hands on the collar of her jacket. She just lets him slide it down her arms. In the mirror over his dresser she can see his reflection carefully folding it and placing it on the back of a chair. His hair wings out in strange places, like he cuts it himself in the bathroom mirror. His hand comes back to hover at her neck, pushing past her hair to touch her skin so lightly she can barely feel it.

When she turns to face him, she ignores the tension in his mouth, the puffiness of his eyes that makes her sure he was crying at some point tonight. If she pays attention to all of those things she won’t go through with this, and she _needs_ to go through with this. So she just reaches for his belt buckle and he closes his eyes and grips her upper arms and lets her.

She backs him towards the bed. When his calves hit the edge of the mattress she pushes, and he falls back, propping himself on his elbows. He just watches as she pulls off first her shoes, then his. Then she climbs up onto the bed, her knees on either side of his thighs. He still has his sweater on over his shirt and she tamps down her irritation at all the layers. Impatience makes her rough when she fists her hand in the front of that sweater and pulls him upright so she can pull it over his head. He obediently raises his arms. His hair is more mussed and boyish than ever after she pulls the sweater free and tosses it across the room. It just about breaks her heart so she kisses him, hard, her hands gripping the front of his shirt.

He’s not the best kisser in the world. He’s overeager, a little sloppy. But still, there’s something about the way he clutches his hands convulsively on her thighs, as if he’s afraid to push them higher, about the low noise that he makes deep in his throat. It makes her breath catch, sadness swirling under her skin. That same exquisite sadness you feel when you’re 15 and you think the boy you love doesn’t know you’re alive.

If he were her ex-husband, she’d have been on her back by now, or bent forward over the edge of the bed. He wouldn’t have waited for her to push her hips forward and rub against him, he wouldn’t have moaned into her mouth if she did. Her ex-husband would have had her out of her clothes before they even hit the bed; he wouldn’t be sitting there with her on his lap, rocking her jeans-clad hips against his until they were both panting and straining against each other. But this isn’t her ex-husband, this is Jim. Jim, who pulls his mouth from hers and buries his face against her shoulder as she writhes against him, his arms tight around her ribs. She’s surprised how glad she is of that fact.

Her hair is a curtain around their faces when he finds her mouth again with his. Her hands tilt his face up to hers, controlling him, slowing him down. He’s a fast learner. Soon he’s kissing her the way she likes, the way she needs, and if she isn’t careful she’ll fall in love with someone that doesn’t really exist. She pulls free, ignoring his sound of protest, and stands to unbutton her jeans and slide them down her legs. His fingers work busily at the buttons of her shirt, stalling only when she kneels between his feet to finish the work she started with his belt and pants. His hand catches her wrist. He’s breathing heavily and his eyes are closed.

“Jan. You don’t have to.” She can feel him quivering, can feel the heat of him just underneath the fabric of his clothes. With his hand still around her wrist she pulls his boxers just past his hips and wraps that hand around his erection.

“I know,” she says, then slides her mouth around him.

He doesn’t grab at her head at all, which is a welcome change. His hand just loosens and slides up, flexing on her shoulder through the thin material of her shirt. His other hand is out against the bed, steadying him. His eyes are closed and she can feel the muscles of his thigh tensing under her hand. He doesn’t take long. When she feels like he’s almost there, she pulls back and wriggles out of her underwear, kicking them aside. He leans back to dig a condom out of his nightstand, opens it and tries to roll it on with unsteady fingers. She pushes his fingers away, rolls it down. His hands reach out to her hips and tug her closer as she climbs up onto the bed again and straddles him, sinking down until he’s completely inside her.

“Jan,” he says hoarsely. “Jan, I’m close…do you- I can-” She shakes her head and works her hand between their bodies, pressing her fingers against herself as she moves. The expression on his face is almost pained, and she feels her body tightening, feels everything focusing then expanding, just before he pushes up into her one more time and finds her mouth again.

She feels limp and drained. His head is resting on her breast. She’s still wearing her bra and her shirt, he’s almost fully-clothed. She hesitantly brings her hands up to his head, touches his damp hair. It’s softer than she expects and wings out stubbornly no matter how she smoothes it.

“You should get a haircut,” she says, then winces at how maternal she sounds. He just smiles, though, and she can feel the curve of his mouth against her skin.

“But the Flow-bee manual said this style was really popular with the ladies.” There is real laughter in his voice now. She’s glad. She pulls away, easing up off of him and scanning the floor for her underwear to give him time to pull up his boxers and pants. They’re halfway under his desk so she snags them with her toe and pulls them close enough to grab. Once she’s pulled them on, she sinks to the floor and sits cross-legged in her bra and underwear and an unbuttoned dress shirt and fishes through the pockets of her jacket like this is totally normal. She finds her pack of cigarettes and pulls it out. Then she reconsiders and holds the pack up for his inspection.

“Are you okay with me smoking in here?” He nods, but she decides he doesn’t really mean it, so she only pulls out one, returning the rest of the pack to her pocket. She’ll just smoke half. The flick of the lighter is loud in the quiet of the room. She inhales deeply

“So,” he says. “Mind if I ask what exactly went wrong tonight?” She makes a _yeah, right_ noise.

“Mind if I ask _you_ that question?” She doesn’t expect him to answer, but he surprises her.

“I told Pam I loved her.” All the laughter is gone from his voice now. He seems more like a little boy than ever. He laughs, then, bitterly, and the little boy is replaced by someone older, someone more cynical. “She said she valued me as a friend.” His voice is laced with mockery and self-loathing and she has to stop herself from kissing him again just to make it stop. “But I went after her again and I kissed her and she said she was still going to marry Roy. So. Score one for Halpert.” He leans forward, draping his arms across his knees. She reaches up with her free hand and touches his head, just a little. Just to let him know she’s there. The sit in silence for a while. The ticking of the clock and her exhalations are the only sounds in the room.

“Well,” she says finally, squinting against the cigarette between her lips. “Engaged is a long way from married. And married is a long way from happy. Take it from me.” He looks up at her from beneath his hair.

“That’s kind of what Michael said,” he tells her. She snorts.

“Figures.”

  
_title from the movie Metropolis_   



End file.
